Futures Lost
by A Touch of Insanity
Summary: When Charles went down on the beach, both of them were broken. Erik takes his helmet off as they fall, and both come to realize that all of their What Might Have Beens are just collateral damage. Slash.


It was the strangest sort of pain, Charles thought, his mind oddly blank as all of the muscles in his body clenched and he fell. It was a cold pain, just at the base of his spine. Something like an acute, cold fire. Then it turned hot for a second, blazing before all heat left him.

When Erik turned him, pulled him into his arms, he couldn't help but cry out at the way it spiked through his ribs, his arms, into his fingers. Erik's hair was a little mussed from the helmet, which now lay discarded beside him, sticking up at odd angles, and he focused on that instead of the pain and how something felt very wrong about his , he wouldn't think about that. Just Erik. Erik's hair was mussed. His hair was mussed and his eyes were the wrong color. They were too gray with a strange muddiness in there. Reflecting the sand, maybe, or the yellow of Charles' suit. They were wet, too. Shiny.

"Charles, I- I'm sorry." He looked up, presumably at Moira, but Charles didn't follow his gaze. He saw the outstretched arm in his periphery, knew what he was doing.

"Erik, stop." And then, slipping easily into his mind, again. _Stop. Please. This wasn't her fault. It was yours._ Erik looked back down quickly. His mouth fell open and a choked-off shard of a noise dropped from it.

_How can you say that to me? I can't handle that, you know it. _The hand gripping Charles' neck was holding on so tight, almost painfully so. And then there was Erik, looking for all the world like his heart had just fallen from him.

_I'm going to be fine._ It took a few years, when he was younger, to figure out how to lie with his thoughts, but he had gotten to be quite proficient. It wasn't the hardest lie. _But you can't do it, Erik. You've had your revenge. There's no need to hold onto your rage. _A small shudder hit him at the near memory of what that revenge cost him. What every nerve ending was registering as that coin plowed through his mind, and how he had to hold on, how hard that was to forcibly keep himself there when every instinct pulled him away, until Shaw's brain shut down. But that was what was needed to keep Erik alive, so he wasn't going to complain.

_I can't. I don't know how. You know that. _

_Let me show you what will happen._

* * *

><p><strong>Low, long buildings, stretching for miles. He'd based them on Erik's own memories, and for a good reason. People file out of the buildings, normal-looking people, but with faces worn transparent with hunger, their cheekbones too defined, their eyes pushing too far from their sockets. They group themselves into a huddled mass. A couple of guards pen them in, but they don't have weapons on them. Then one of the guards steps forwards, a hand outstretched. He is an almost faceless stranger, but young, handsome, and smiling in a way that has no warmth. The people are afraid, hundreds of them all shaking in fear. It rolls off of them and touches everything nearby, saturates it. <strong>

**The fire starts at their feet, small and low, just up to their ankles, and the people start to scream. Men, women, children, all screaming in one voice. The flames lick higher, to their knees, and their wails are grating and harsh. By the time the fire has reached their waists, all are dead.**

**The young guard lowers his hand and says, "Bring on the next batch of walking apes. Magneto wanted to get another set in by lunch."**

* * *

><p>Charles pushed the people's fear at him, threw Erik's own fear into his mind, pushed it down. Crammed it all in.<p>

_Don't you see, Erik? You'll become like them. You'll be the one giving orders to those who will follow them, people who will commit unspeakable atrocities because you told them to do so. You'll exterminate them. They're weaker, sure, but real power is not the strong destroying the weak; it's the ability to hold back, to control yourself and your rage and choose not obliterate those who are beneath you._

_I can't stop._

Charles knew that for truth. If there was one thing Erik lacked, it was control. He was never physically able to make himself stop anything he started. He'd never had control over anything when he could have learned to use it. It was always taken from him, roughly and without mercy. Charles knew that. He'd seen a thousand memories that had made him _weep_ with sorrow, with empathy. He had suffered at the hands of many, including an immeasurable wave of abuse from Shaw (which could have been part of the reason Charles stayed in him to his end because he knew that Shaw deserved a thousand worse things than what Erik gave him, even if he could never truly condone murder). There was so much pain in him, and he never learned to just _stop_ because they never stopped, Shaw never stopped, even when he begged. Even when he did exactly what he was told. No one ever stopped for him.

_Let me give you a reason to stop, Erik. Let me show you what our future could be._

* * *

><p><strong>The curtains flit inside the room with the breeze. They dance. Translucent white ghosts that tease on the wind. From the window comes also a buzzing noise, of traffic, of distant car horns, of people. Soft, though. A murmur. It's a warm day, nearly dry, but warm in a yellow sort of way. A liquid way. It swims in through the window, that Parisian July heat, and curls around the room. <strong>

**It's an apartment, far smaller than Charles is used to, but there's evidence of home. The coat tree holds an array of hats, all of them Erik's, and both of their coats. Next to the low couch on an antique end table sit Charles' reading glasses and a book. In the corner, a desk with all sorts of study materials piled on it. There's a chessboard on the coffee table, clearly in the middle of a game. Throughout the room sit little odds and ends of twisted wire, coaxed into aesthetically pleasing forms or wrapped around the base of a lamp in a pattern of whorls and swirls or spun and warped into a mod bookshelf in one corner. A record player in the opposite corner croons some good French jazz very softly, but it winds around the space, from the living room over the little partition that divided it into a sleeping space. That end of the room narrows abruptly, cut into for a bathroom behind one wall, and the bed just barely fits, nestled in with walls on three sides and that open window with its fluttering curtains on the long side.**

**Charles and Erik sit with their backs against opposite walls, legs stretched out. A bottle of good wine sits in an ice bucket between them. It's cool against their legs. The sky, a honey-like orange, says it's late evening, but they're staying in tonight. Charles looks at Erik over his wine glass, looking very cool in a black turtleneck, with more than a touch of fondness. **

**Erik takes a cigarette from his tin and lights it, blowing the first bit of smoke in the general direction of the window. He makes a pretty picture, and Charles makes sure that he knows it, thinks it at him with rather more explicit detail.**

"**You're insatiable," Erik says, looking out the window still. There's a smirk flirting with his features. **

"**Yes, well, you're an incorrigible magnet for attraction, pun intended. Quite the groovy pair we make." Charles sets his wine glass down on the floor beside the bed. The bucket floats away, and Erik takes a long drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out on the window sill. Charles makes a face, but he's sliding over with a kind of intent that betrays his affection. **

**They meet somewhere in the middle, their connection at the mouth. A warm, familiar kiss, fond but with a clear aim of going further. **

**Smooth jazz wraps around them from one direction, Parisian street noise from the other, and all around them is the warm, strange sensation of home.**

* * *

><p><em>We could be happy, <em>Charles thought at him. _Don't you see? We can leave these foolish little boys with their little toy guns and run away from all of this. Our part in this war is over. We can be happy now. We're allowed._

Erik's face drooped into utter hopelessness, like he wanted nothing more than to do what Charles was saying. _I don't know how. I don't know how to do things for my own enjoyment. I only know how to prepare, to strategize. I have no idea how to be happy._

_I'll teach you. We'll figure it out together. Just please, leave this with me. Let them play their war games. Come with me. _

There's an impotent sort of anger that turned in on itself in his face. _You make it sound so easy. It isn't. You're blinded by optimism. _

_No. I just have hope. _

_Some of us don't have that luxury. Some of us never had it. This is the real world. We're part of it. We can either make our own decisions or let their decisions make us. I can't tolerate the latter any longer. The only thing waiting for us out there is experimentation and death. It's my turn to show you._

* * *

><p><strong>Charles looks at himself, and now he is afraid. He's strapped into a chair, restrained at at least ten different points by thick leather straps. Needles and wires trail from his arms into machines and bags. He's unconscious. His head is shaved, and there are a hundred electrodes all over his scalp. His face is in some sort of desperate expression of pain. It's eerie to see it on his own face. <strong>

**A man in a white coat stands over him. He's speaking in a nasal, harsh tone.**

"**Find them, Xavier. Find them all. Find them and kill them. They're mutant swine, you understand. Abominations. They should have never been born. You should have never been born. You're an insult to the human race. You aren't even part of it. Destroy them. I want them all dead." **

**Behind a wall of glass sits Erik. There are ropes wrapped around his arms, legs, chest, and throat, but he's struggling. His veins and tendons stand out, his face red, as he tries to break free, to stop what he's seeing. But he's completely powerless. He can only sit by as his best and only friend, his brother in arms, his lover is turned into a weapon against everyone like them.**

* * *

><p><em>I can't just sit by and watch it happen. I won't let them do this to you. To us. <em>There was a pleading, begging tinge to Erik's thoughts even, and his face was completely broken. Charles' chest tightened, was already tight, because he could feel Erik's worst fear as if it were his own.

_No. There has to be something better. You can think of something better. This won't happen, and you know it. It's alright to imagine good things. Good things do happen, Erik. Believe me. There's…well, there's you. You're here and alive by some miracle. I know you can dream. Show me._

_This world was not made to hold the both of us in it. The best case scenario is still less than what I'd want from all of this. From you._

_I don't care. Show me._

_Fine. But you won't like it._

* * *

><p><strong>A strangely cold hotel room. Finland, Erik supplies. Raven, blue as ever, sits on a couch. There are others, Azazel, Emma, and more, just empty faces, really, sitting with drinks on couches. It's a suite, of course, expensive. They look at Erik like he's their leader, but there's no warmth. It almost feels more familiar for it. <strong>

**Erik downs a fifth of good vodka, then heads to the main bedroom. The others do not know him. They follow him, but they do not understand. They can only see him through their own eyes, and Erik misses the feeling of someone in his mind. **

**He sits on his bed, up against the head board, and takes off the helmet. Charles knows from the back of Erik's mind that he's opening his mind for a reason. He feels the ghost of himself pour into the echoing passages of Erik's mind. **

_**How long do we have? I have an hour here,**_** Charles thinks at him immediately. **_**The children have gone for a test flight in Hank's new jet. **_**This Erik's stomach clenches at the idea of what could have been a real moment alone, far away from a Scandinavian hotel.**

**He thinks of the mutants in the other room, how Mystique will come for him soon. **_**Not long. Perhaps twenty minutes. Less than I would have liked.**_** Erik sighs and shuts his eyes. **_**I'm sorry. I wish we could have more time.**_

_**I wish for nothing else. But you chose to hold onto old memories instead of make new ones. I'm still hoping that it'll be enough to make you come back. The mansion's always open you, Erik.**_

_**You, with your hopes. How have they served you thus far?**_

_**We don't have time for this discussion again. Not if they expect you so soon. Let me touch you.**_

**Erik leans his head back against the headboard as his hands slide over his chest, start to unbutton his shirt. But Charles sees his own movements in those hands, sees that they touch Erik the way he would, the way he did. Gently. Tenderly. **

**In this Erik's mind unfolds a familiar scene. Their one time, their one moment when they had each other completely. When Charles had introduced him to the idea of making love, and they did, for almost an hour and a half, splaying each other out over a couch with a slow sort of reverence. When their chess board had laid abandoned and a fire crackled gingerly and they started to learn each others' bodies. They had made their mistakes then, had left inches of skin to explore later but never got the chance. **

**Charles watches as Erik relives one of his best and worst memories and his own hands touch him with an apology in each caress, a weight of regret in each stroke. **

**When he finishes, a stray, unbidden tear slips traitorously down his cheek, and Charles tries to hold him and can't.**

* * *

><p><em>This cannot be the best for us, <em>Charles practically yelled into Erik's mind. His heart was breaking, at least halfway through the process, and he'd rather take a coin through the head any day than have to feel Erik's tragedy of a best case scenario pull him apart. They could not end up like that. _I won't let that happen. I could never._

_It isn't your choice, is it? _

_You're right; it's yours. If you stay with me, none of that has to happen. You don't have to leave._

_But I do. I must. _His face….His face was too much for Charles to stand.

_Why? Why does it have to be like this? Why can't you just do what you truly want for once? Instead of what to feel you have to do?_

_Because if I stay, I'll betray you. _He choked on something between a laugh and a sob, and Charles felt a drop hit his cheek. _I don't know how to live without rage. I can't stay by you, just idle. I would leave you, I would have to, and it would be that much worse. I'm a monster. I can't just while away my days with you, drinking and watching time slip by when I know they're going to come for us. If we let our guard down long enough to be happy, they'll take us and put us in their labs. And if I leave, if I stay away from you, I'll bring the fight to myself; they'll never have a reason to find you. But if we're together? We'll have damned ourselves and everyone like us. I can't stand by for a second Holocaust. I just can't. _

Charles looked at him and thought about how much he wished that things were different, that the others weren't there so that they could have a last kiss and actually touch each other again. Because Erik was leaving; he had to, and even though Charles could physically stop him, he couldn't keep him on a mental leash forever. The thought was disgusting. No, he would let Erik go, and he might lose a new piece of his soul with him, but he'd let him go. He wanted him too much to hold on.

"Go," he said aloud, barely trusting his voice to shape the word.

Erik stared at him with so much loss, so much pain in his eyes. "Will you be alright?" The true answer to that question was not one that Erik wanted to hear. It hadn't quite slipped his notice that his legs were feeling a surprising amount of nothing, but lying came easier to his tongue than his mind.

"I'm fine. They'll patch me up fine. But if you don't go now, I don't know if I'll be able to let you."

Erik made that decision for him and picked the helmet out of the sand, pulled it over his head. He let his hand brush across Charles' cheek before he got up, quick enough that it would look like an accident to anyone else. Moira swept over to his side, but Charles waited until after Erik took his sister and a slew of misguided souls and a few bits and pieces of Charles away with him.

"I can't feel my legs," he said, repeating it over and over, but what he was thinking was _I can't feel anything, I can't feel anything at all._


End file.
